


Twelve Nights

by beetle



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Best Friends, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Bottom Sam Wilson, Bottom Steve Rogers, Brooding, Christmas, Comfort/Angst, Deprogramming Bucky, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Holidays, Idiots in Love, Lovers to Friends, M/M, Mentions of Tony Stark, New Year's Kiss, New Years, Nightmares, PantherShield, Past Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, Past Sharon Carter/Steve Rogers, Past WinterShield, Protective T'Challa (Marvel), Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Steve Rogers-centric, T'Challa (Marvel) Feels, Top Bucky Barnes, Top T'Challa (Marvel), Twelve Days Of Christmas, Wakanda, WinterFalcon - Freeform, scarletvision - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-12
Updated: 2016-12-16
Packaged: 2018-09-08 03:04:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 8,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8827984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: Right before and after Bucky is awakened, Steve loses sleep, broods, and realizes he might be in love. But not with Bucky.The theme of these twelve escalating (by one hundred words for each “night”) drabbles, droubbles, trabbles, and so on, is a countdown of the Twelve Nights of Christmas: December 24th to January 5th. Written for the Advent Challenge posted on Facebook by Magi_Silverwolf.





	1. Night XII

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Magi_Silverwolf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magi_Silverwolf/gifts), [notcaycepollard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notcaycepollard/gifts).



> Notes/Warnings: AU. Set post CA: CW by six months. Each ficlet will increase in length by one hundred words. The first ficlet will be one hundred words (a drabble). The final ficlet will be twelve hundred words.
> 
> To Magi_Silverwolf for the challenge and Notcaycepollard for inspiring the WinterFalcon. As for the PantherShield . . . that's pretty much all on me. So you know who to blame for it.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Right before and after Bucky is awakened, Steve loses sleep, broods, and realizes he might be in love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes/Warnings: AU. Set post CA: CW by six months. Each ficlet will increase in length by one hundred words. The first ficlet will be one hundred words (a drabble). The final ficlet will be twelve hundred words.

* * *

 

“Are you certain you’re ready, Steven?”

 

On the First Night of Christmas, Steven Grant Rogers had woken, sweating, from _another_ Bucky-nightmare.

 

Clutching at the lightweight cotton—Wakanda _wasn’t_ a heavyweight _anything_ sort of climate—sheets covering T’Challa’s ridiculous-huge bed, Steve quirked a limp half-smile at his too-perceptive bedmate. Kissed the melancholy young king a very early _good morning_.

 

“I dunno,” he eventually admitted, swallowing around the wrenching honesty, but not resisting when T’Challa wordlessly pulled him in for another kiss.

 

On the backs of Steve’s eyelids, Bucky still strangled him while Tony Stark watched inscrutably from a comfortable distance away.


	2. Night XI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Right before and after Bucky is awakened, Steve loses sleep, broods, and realizes he might be in love. The theme of these twelve escalating ficlets is a countdown of the Twelve Nights of Christmas: December 24th to January 5th.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes/Warnings: AU. Set post CA: CW by six months. Each ficlet will increase in length by one hundred words. The first ficlet will be one hundred words (a drabble). The final ficlet will be twelve hundred words.
> 
> (Getting a jump on the Second Night because I may not be in posting shape on Tuesday morning.)

“You ready for this, man?”

 

Steve’d been asked several times since T’Challa’s spies first briefed him on their . . . _recruitment_ of a high-level, ex-H.Y.D.R.A. shrink. And he hadn’t slept well since. The night prior, he hadn’t slept _at all_ —though T’Challa’d found ways to keep them both distracted during that sleepless span.

 

Tonight, however, the Wakandan king was busy with matters of state, leaving Steve to brood alone. Till Sam’d shown up at his door, with a twelve-pack, some Wakandan brandy, and some bottles of scotch-whisky that were older than _Steve_.

 

Now, Sam was about to black-out and Steve was still clear-headed enough to do someone’s taxes.

 

“You _ready_ , bro?” Sam slurred again, his dark, puppy-eyes half-closed as he sank deeper into Steve’s couch. Even drunk off his ass and adorably hilarious with it, Sam was prone to mother-henning Steve, who gave a limp, now-familiar smile.

 

“I dunno,” he answered honestly, standing. Sam frowned up at Steve, then his eyes rolled back into his head. His bottle of _Lowenbrau_ slipped from nerveless fingers. Steve, of course, caught it. And finished it.

 

Waste not, want not.

 

By the time Steve got him tucked in and shut off the lights, Sam was snoring.


	3. Night X

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Right before and after Bucky is awakened, Steve loses sleep, broods, and realizes he might be in love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes/Warnings: AU. Set post CA: CW by several months. Each ficlet will increase in length by one hundred words. The first ficlet will be one hundred words (a drabble). The final ficlet will be twelve hundred words.

“. . . and after Barton and Laura’s little Christmas shindig, Sam and I got _hammered_. Well, _Sam_ got hammered. I was mostly around to watch, point, and laugh,” Steve amended, smiling. “He looked like _Hell_ the next morning and wouldn’t stop glaring at me.”

 

Steve was sitting at the foot of Bucky’s cryo-tube, leaning back against the glass—it was habit, now, to hold vigil at Bucky’s frozen feet, keeping him apprised of daily goings-on during his slumber.

 

But that was easier to do without _seeing_ his best friend doing time as a . . . _Soldat_ -cicle.

 

“T’Challa’s people think they’ll have the deprogramming plan set-up and ready within another week. Maybe less. They’re, uh . . . they’re workin’ ‘round the clock for ya, Buck. Everyone is. Well. Those of us with something to actually contribute. . . .” Snorting ruefully, he trailed off before continuing in a strident tone. “And T’Challa even got Hope Van Dyne and Hank Pym to design a new prosthetic arm for you. He’s just . . . the greatest, isn’t he? Just . . . really tops. And, uh . . . Van Dyne and Pym’ve started on the arm, but won’t be able to complete it without examining you first. Which I _know_ you’ll enjoy . . . right, pal?”

 

Sighing, Steve leaned his head back against the cold glass.

 

“I miss ya, Buck. So much. So much.”

 

And though he meant to make his way back to his quarters—he _always_ meant to—Steve fell asleep next to his best friend, just like old times. Slept with his back pressed up against Bucky, just like Brooklyn. Just like the War.

 

Even after everything, it was one of the few places Steve felt _safe_.

 

And when he woke up the next morning covered in a lightweight wool blanket, he simply noted the familiar, combined scents of sandalwood, leather, and cardamom— _T’Challa’s scent_ —and breathed in. . . .


	4. Night IX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Right before and after Bucky is awakened, Steve loses sleep, broods, and realizes he might be in love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes/Warnings: AU. Set post CA: CW by six months. Each ficlet will increase in length by one hundred words. The first ficlet will be one hundred words (a drabble). The final ficlet will be twelve hundred words.

As the evening’s briefing on the deprogramming closed, Steve caught T’Challa’s eye— _not_ a tough thing to do, since the young king’s eyes always seemed to be . . . Steve-adjacent, lately.

 

When everyone headed off to do their own thing, Steve nodded obliquely at T’Challa, holding his gaze for a pointed moment, before strolling out of the conference room. He could feel T’Challa’s gaze follow him like a spotlight.

 

He left the doors to his quarters and bedroom slightly ajar. When T’Challa arrived ten minutes later—still in his charcoal-and-grey business casual-wear, his sanguine face set in a small smile, and his eyes heated and hungry—Steve was already in bed, naked, hard, and waiting.

 

For every inch of smooth, dark skin revealed by T’Challa’s unhurried, but efficient disrobing, Steve’s eyes widened and dilated a little more . . . the hand on his cock tightened, and stroked a little harder and a little faster.

 

By the time T’Challa knelt between Steve’s spread and drawn up thighs, they were both practically panting. They met for a long, deep kiss that ended with Steve prone beneath T’Challa and T’Challa bearing his weight up on one arm out of—unnecessary—consideration for Steve’s comfort as he stared and stared.

 

“See somethin’ ya like, Majesty?” Steve teased. T’Challa smiled, absent and fond.

 

“Your mouth, Captain Rogers . . . is very distracting,” he murmured, leaning down to steal a slow, teasing kiss that left Steve flushed and moaning. “It’s providential that you aren’t part of _more_ meetings I attend. For surely, I’d be unable to concentrate on the matters at hand for fantasizing about the way your mouth curves when you smile, and the way your lips always taste of mint and honey.”

 

Steve grinned and blushed, biting his lower lip. “Sweet-talker,” he whispered, wrapping his leg around T’Challa’s, rolling them over in a take-down move, and straddling T’Challa’s slim hips. He kissed and licked, sucked and nipped his way down that perfect, acrobat’s body, till he was hovering over T’Challa’s girthy, gorgeous dick. He nuzzled curly, dark pubes and licked T’Challa from root to tip, teasing the slit with his tongue and collecting the now-familiar taste of bitter salt precome with relish. “Just for that, I’m gonna spend _all night_ reminding you what this mouth can do, huh?”

 

And he held T’Challa’s dark gaze steadily as he let the king slide into his mouth, and down his waiting, willing, _wanting_ throat.


	5. Night VIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Right before and after Bucky is awakened, Steve loses sleep, broods, and realizes he might be in love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes/Warnings: AU. Set post CA: CW by six months. Each ficlet will increase in length by one hundred words. The first ficlet will be one hundred words (a drabble). The final ficlet will be twelve hundred words.

Steve was sitting in a corner of T’Challa’s private garden, sketching the flowering tree and stone bench where he and T’Challa had shared their first kiss—among other things—but doing more staring into space and smiling in remembrance, than actual sketching.

 

That pleasant culmination of weeks of warm glances and inviting smiles—mostly T’Challa’s—had happened nearly six months ago, and Steve was smiling and absently brushing charcoal-smudged fingertips across his lower lip.

 

He made the mistake of closing his eyes for a few moments, to more fully capture the memory—the callused, gentle fingertips of T’Challa’s right hand had tilted Steve’s face to the left, while his left hand had covered Steve’s on the damp stone of the bench . . . then T’Challa’s plush, perfect lips had pressed Steve’s in a chaste kiss that’d lasted well beyond the point Steve’s surprise had passed and he’d let T’Challa coax his lips apart with a teasing tongue-tip and soft sighs—and instead of seeing T’Challa’s dark, boyishly handsome face, with its unexpectedly puckish smile and dancing eyes, he saw _another_ boyish face. This one was pale and serious, with lips that had forgotten how to smile and eyes that were cold, flat, and unforgiving. . . .

 

“You are _so_ not ready, Captain Rogers,” a voice said from behind him. Steve was up in a defensive stance instantly, and Wanda Maximoff held up her hennaed hands and bangled wrists, wiggling ringed fingers in greeting and surrender. Her round, eerie-pale eyes were knowing in her inverted oval of a face.

 

Steve sighed, and dropped back onto the bench opposite his and T’Challa’s once more, picking up his sketchbook and charcoal from the cobblestones. “That _does_ seem to be the general consensus, Miss Maximoff.”

 

With a chuckle, the Maximoff girl glided past him and sat on the very bench Steve was once again trying to sketch. He huffed, fingers slowing to a stop. “Is there a _reason_ you’re here, beyond wanting to be my latest subject, Miss Maximoff?”

 

“It is not an inability to accept Sergeant Barnes as he now is that plagues you,” she answered in placid, smoky tones. “It is your own fear that _he_ will be unable to accept _you_ as you are. That has always been your besetting fear.”

 

Frowning, Steve looked down at his unfinished sketch and felt the ghost of T’Challa’s lips and fingertips as spots of tingling heat on his breeze-cooled skin. He shivered, and didn’t dare examine the reason. “ _Has_ it? And how _am_ I, Miss Maximoff?”

 

“That . . . is not my place to say, Captain Rogers. But please . . . call me _Wanda_.”

 

Steve met her gaze again, frowning. She seemed so innocent and ancient, simultaneously. Young and old. He wondered, with a flash of insight, if that was how others saw _him_.

 

Then he looked down at his page again. At his charcoal-grey fingertips. At the memory of T’Challa’s touch.

 

“Guess that means you should start callin’ me _Steve_ ,” he sighed eventually, glancing up.

 

Wanda was gone.


	6. Night VII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Right before and after Bucky is awakened, Steve loses sleep, broods, and realizes he might be in love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes/Warnings: AU. Set post CA: CW by six months. Each ficlet will increase in length by one hundred words. The first ficlet will be one hundred words (a drabble). The final ficlet will be twelve hundred words.

“Knock-knock?”

 

Sam leaned against his door post and Steve grinned awkwardly, offering two bottles of Wakandan currant wine. Which Sam took after a baffled blink, then stood aside without a word.

 

What a lonely, at-loose-ends Steve Rogers walked into was a casual get-together. Barton was playing _GTA7_ , tongue-tip pointing out from between his thin-ish lips as he concentrated on jacking someone’s ride. Wanda Maximoff and Laura Barton were out on Sam’s terrace, chatting and sipping from glasses of Muscato. And, sitting Indian-style in a corner near Sam’s bookshelf, telling a story to Barton’s enrapt older kids while holding the youngest, little Nathaniel Pietro—or, as Wanda called him, _Pero_ —was none other than. . . .

 

“Vision,” Steve said without inflection, approaching the android, who stood with a serene smile.

 

“Good evening, Captain Rogers. How marvelous to see you again,” he said softly as Barton’s kids jumped up to hug _Uncle Steve’s_ legs. Chuckling, Steve hugged them back as he eyed Vision.

 

“Yeah . . . long time, no see.” He shrugged, then smiled, offering his hand. “It’s good to see you, too.”

 

Vision took Steve’s hand without hesitation.

 

#

 

“ _Soooooo_ ,” Steve said several hours later, watching from Sam’s sofa—where Barton had beaten him at _GTA7_ handily—as, out on the terrace, Wanda and Vision said their good-byes. Vision, seeming a bit regretful and awkward, leaned in to peck Wanda’s cheek before squeezing her hands, then flying off. Wanda watched him go with obvious longing, before meandering between the cypresses separating her terrace from Sam’s. “How long’s _that_ been goin’ on?”

 

“What?” Sam asked from his armchair, cramming a handful of _Doritos_ into his mouth. (Steve didn’t care for them unless it was the Sweet Chili-flavor, which both Sam _and_ T’Challa hated. They'd bonded early over that hate and over mocking Steve for his “terrible taste” in snacks.)

 

“Uh . . . _Vision_ and _Wanda Maximoff_. They’re a _thing_?”

 

“Oh.” Sam shrugged and chewed. “Yeah. Not for as long as _you and T’Challa_ have been a thing, but almost.”

 

 _Steve_ blinked and gaped. “Uh. Okay. _Wow_. T’Challa and I are a _thing_ , now?”

 

Sam gave Steve a wry, knowing look. “You two are _such_ a thing, Steven Grant Rogers, don’t even _act_ like you aren't. And _don’t_ gimme that face.”

 

“ _What_ face? This is just the face I have! I’m not making it . . . _do stuff_!” Steve protested and Sam rolled his eyes.

 

“Whatever. You were _totally_ about to deny that you two’re—what’d they call it in the forties? An item?”

 

Blushing, Steve sipped at his lukewarm, half-flat beer. “It’s . . . I mean, T’Challa and I _aren’t_. . . .”

 

“ _Stupid_ in love with each other?” Sam gave Steve his patented, innocent puppy-eyes. “Oh, my bad, then, bro.”

 

“We . . . enjoy each other’s company, it’s true—”

 

“ _Boy_ , is it true.” Sam snorted. “Whenever he spends the night in your quarters, _I_ get to hear a blow-by-blow, as it were, of _how much_ you ‘enjoy each other’s company.’”

 

His face crimson, Steve looked down at his half-empty bottle. “Sorry. But if it’s any consolation, I think he’s . . . that _I’m_ wearing out my welcome with him. In the . . . y’know . . . um, _sexual_ sense. We haven’t, uh . . . _enjoyed each other_ in a couple days—haven’t even _seen_ each other to say _hi_. Whatever’s between us is winding down, I guess,” he finished miserably, heaving a morose sigh. “He’s, uh . . . _so over me_ , I guess is the phrase.”

 

Suddenly a handful of Cool Ranch _Doritos_ hit Steve in the face and he squawked, glaring at Sam who was glowering right back.

 

“Dude,” Sam said heavily, shaking his head. “I love you, but . . . you’re a fucking _idiot_.”


	7. Night VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Right before and after Bucky is awakened, Steve loses sleep, broods, and realizes he might be in love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes/Warnings: AU. Set post CA: CW by six months. Each ficlet will increase in length by one hundred words. The first ficlet will be one hundred words (a drabble). The final ficlet will be twelve hundred words.

When T’Challa found Steve in his personal gym, it’d been almost seventy— _long_ —hours since they’d seen each other.

 

The young king watched Steve demolish two heavy-bags before speaking. “I’d ask how you’ve been, but the piles of sand and canvas at your feet speak volumes.”

 

Steve grunted and hung the fifth such heavy-bag—it was a good thing T’Challa was not only richer than God, but more generous than Jesus—in less than half a workout.

 

“And I was . . . surprised not to see you, the past few nights,” T’Challa said apropos of nothing, after watching Steve for a few more minutes.

 

“Dunno why.” Uppercut. “You were busy doin’ king-stuff, anyway.” Roundhouse. “I’d’ve just been in the way.” Haymaker. Just the way Bucky’d taught him when they were thirteen. “’Sides.” Hook-jab-cross combo, as taught by Peggy back in Basic. “Figured you must be sicka the sighta me.”

 

Roundhouse again. Then Steve was blinking down at another pile of sand and canvas.

 

“I don’t think that state is possible, Steven.”

 

This was said from Steve’s left, just out of arm’s reach—though not arm’s _lunge_. And that’s kind of what Steve wanted more than just about anything. Not to lunge, but to _be lunged at_.

 

He glanced at T’Challa’s dark eyes, quick then away, flushing deeply by dint of want and embarrassment. He was half-hard. Had been since just after he started working out—just the way the serum has him wired, he supposed—and T’Challa’s the most observant man Steve’d ever known. He _had_ to have noticed Steve’s state, considering the loose cling of the drawstring sweatpants.

 

His gaze darting to the waiting line of heavy-bags on the floor, Steve’s shoulders slumped a little, they and his bare chest sheened in perspiration. His hair was damp enough to hang over his brow in untidy, blond fringe that he brushed away as he started toward the bags. But T’Challa’s hand on his elbow stopped him.

 

“I’ve missed you, Steven,” T’Challa’s murmured, moving close enough that his words blew gently in Steve’s ear, causing him to shiver deeply. “I miss you whenever you’re not where I am.”

 

Frowning, Steve risked a glance at T’Challa and, for the first time, was brave enough to attempt to read those dark, mysterious eyes. . . .

 

“Oh,” he said at last, when some long, silent moments had passed. T’Challa smiled, drawing Steve’s own small, hesitant smile. And when he wrapped strong arms around Steve’s waist and pulled him back into a loose, affectionate embrace, Steve swallowed and closed his eyes. “And, uh . . . where _w-were_ you last night? Meeting?”

 

“I canceled them all so I could wait in bed for you, of course,” T’Challa sighed, leaning his chin on Steve’s shoulder. “You never _did_ show up.”

 

“I. . . .” Steve swallowed again. “I didn’t think you’d be in your chambers. And even if I had, I wouldn’t’ve thought you’d. . . .”

 

“Miss you?” T’Challa nuzzled behind Steve’s ear and into his hair. “Wish to have you in my arms, snoring away?”

 

“I don’t snore.” But Steve sounded less than certain. It wasn’t like he’d ever been asleep with witnesses to his nocturnal habits. T’Challa was the first. “Anyway . . . I don’t go to your chambers if I don’t get an express invitation from his Majesty.”

 

Chuckling, the young king swayed them a little. “And _I_ don’t go to _yours_ if you don’t _ask_ _me_. I don't wish to . . . impose.”

 

Feeling out of his depth, Steve nonetheless sensed a purposeful opening, and took a deep, shaking breath. “Y-you . . . you _could_ , if you wanted. If you wanted to . . . drop in and see me, sometimes. I’d . . . like that.”

 

T’Challa hummed and held him tighter. Steve wasn’t the only one who was hard. “Likewise. You have unlimited access to my chambers at any time, Steven. And have done for the past three months.”

 

“I—really?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Steve blushed and, after a few seconds of sudden giddiness, found himself grinning. He leaned back in T’Challa’s embrace with a contented sigh. He felt . . . at peace. Scarily so.

 

“I’m sweaty as a pig,” he apologized, and T’Challa kissed his shoulder.

 

“Come back to my chambers and we’ll share a bath,”

 

“Is that an invitation, my king?”

 

“Indeed. I’ll even scrub your back. . . .”


	8. Night V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Right before and after Bucky is awakened, Steve loses sleep, broods, and realizes he might be in love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes/Warnings: AU. Set post CA: CW by six months. Each ficlet will increase in length by one hundred words. The first ficlet will be one hundred words (a drabble). The final ficlet will be twelve hundred words.

“I gather, from the way you’ve been hiding behind columns and tall headdresses the entire evening, that this is . . . all somewhat strange, to you.”

 

Smiling and sanguine, even with the other’s stealthy, silent appearance, Steve looked away from the stars—a precursor for the impending fireworks show, the cap of Wakanda’s New Year’s Night celebration and the King’s Birthday Jubilee—and at T’Challa. The Wakandan king, having somehow escaped the demands on his presence at the lavish state soiree, leaned upon the ballroom terrace balustrade, like Steve was. He, too, gazed up at the stars, but with a melancholy look on his face, even though he was smiling.

 

“Not _so_ strange . . . _fantastic_. Overwhelming. _Gorgeous_ , like everything about Wakanda,” Steve replied, staring at T’Challa till the other man met his gaze and some of the melancholy lifted from his features for the first time that evening. His smile seemed somehow more content and happy the longer he held Steve’s gaze.

 

“You look very handsome in your tux, Captain Rogers,” T’Challa finally said, after the moment stretched into something Steve could no longer easily define. Blushing, he glanced down at his white jacket and shirt, black Diamond bowtie—the _James Bond_ -bowtie, which Sam had skillfully tied for Steve—the black pants, and highly-shined shoes, all bespoke by T’Challa’s personal tailor.

 

“Well-made tuxedos have magic powers. They make any Joe wearin’ one a _hundred_ times better-looking than he’d otherwise be.” Eyeing tall, slim, handsome T’Challa in his charcoal tux and white, self-tie bowtie, Steve’s smile widened appreciatively. “Though _some of us_ really don’t _need_ the improvement. They just like to show-off.”

 

T’Challa chuckled and leaned closer to Steve. “If ever a night was made for showing off, Steven, it’s _tonight_. _New Year’s_ Night. The night on which even the smallest Wakandan child celebrates not the last gasps of an _old_ year, but the successful first breaths of a _new one_. After Founding Day, it’s the most important holiday on the Wakandan calendar. Our second biggest excuse to overdress, overeat, overindulge, and light up the night with colorful explosives after doing so.”

 

“The fireworks _are_ pretty . . . _amazing_.”

 

T’Challa’s dark brows lifted. “But the fireworks haven’t started yet.”

 

Grinning, Steve let a beat pass between them before looking down at T’Challa’s bowtie and adjusting it minutely. “Oh,” he murmured. “I’d say the fireworks’ve _long_ since begun, Majesty.”

 

So saying, Steve fiddled with T’Challa’s perfectly straight tie until it was crooked. Until T’Challa caught his fingers and kissed them, before tilting Steve’s face up. When they were gaze to gaze, T’Challa was no longer smiling, but staring at Steve with solemn, candid eyes. Eyes that were brimming with some large emotion Steve had _never_ seen there before.

 

That, perhaps, _T’Challa_ had never _let_ Steve see.

 

“Steven,” he whispered, brows furrowing. Steve blushed and looked down again.

 

“In case I haven’t already said it a million times . . . I’m _honored_ to be your date for the evening. I know . . . I know there’re people close to you that don’t exactly like the idea of you making not only another man your date, but a trouble-making foreigner, to boot.”

 

“Steven—”

 

“I know you’ve got a whole _world_ fulla people you could have on your arm tonight, or any other night, so the fact that you picked _me_ —and _keep_ picking me—just kinda . . . takes my breath away.” Steve freed his fingers and reached up to brush them along T’Challa’s jaw before stealing a quick, chaste kiss then looking down again, redder than ever. “ _Thank you_ , T’Challa.”

 

“You’re more than an attractive date and a way to shock my father’s old cronies, Steven Rogers. So much more than that,” T’Challa promised in a low, thick voice.

 

When Steve dared to glance up again, T’Challa leaned in to kiss him, slow, soft, and sweet. It wasn’t a lengthy sizzler, like their kisses usually were, but it was somehow the _best_ kiss of Steve’s life. And by the time it ended, he and T’Challa were in each other’s arms.

 

“Steven,” T’Challa whispered again squeezing Steve tight.

 

“Happy New Year, your majesty . . . and happy birthday,” Steve murmured, meeting that dark, too-vulnerable gaze, then backing away out of T’Challa’s arms as the first of the celebrants made their way onto the terrace, talking and laughing. In moments, he turned and was lost to the excited, chattering crowd and hurrying back to his quarters, breathless and shaking with the knowledge that he’d briefly dodged a shot to the heart that’d find him eventually, anyway.

 

That _particular_ _bullet_ had Steve’s name all over it.

 

#

 

“Happy New Year to you, too, Steven,” T’Challa murmured to the sky, his face gone melancholy again as around him, the crowd _ooh_ ed and _aah_ ed and applauded, and above him, the Heavens were lit up gold and blue and red.


	9. Night IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Right before and after Bucky is awakened, Steve loses sleep, broods, and realizes he might be in love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes/Warnings: AU. Set post CA: CW by six months. Each ficlet will increase in length by one hundred words. The first ficlet will be one hundred words (a drabble). The final ficlet will be twelve hundred words.

Steve opened his eyes to near-total darkness.

 

Barely oh-two-hundred hours. At 6:15 . . . _Bucky_.

 

After leaving a lingering kiss on T’Challa’s lips, Steve eased out of his arms. The Wakandan king huffed and sighed in his sleep, rolling half-into Steve’s spot.

 

Smiling, Steve grabbed T’Challa’s black, cotton bathrobe from the chair where he, himself, had flung it earlier.

 

Sparing a last glance at his lover, Steve belted the robe and made his way across the moonlit bedchamber to T’Challa’s balcony, whereon someone stood, waiting. Steve yawned.

 

“Y’wanted to see me, Vision?”

 

#

 

“You _do_ realize I’m not Wanda, right? And that you’ve, uh . . . missed her quarters by a bit?” Steve sat on one of three patio chaises, smiling a not-so-secret smile—considering that Vision was in possession of the Mind Stone and had powers comparable to Wanda Maximoff’s—as he remembered the _last_ _time_ he’d sat in the same chair.

 

Well . . . he’d actually sat on _T’Challa_. Rather, _straddled_ the king, his hands covering T’Challa’s where they gripped Steve’s hips bruising-hard, as Steve’d lowered himself gingerly onto T’Challa’s cock. Steve had relished the sweet, burning ache and slow, implacable thrust of his lover’s flesh into his body. He'd squeezed T’Challa’s hands and dick tight, his teeth gaining purchase in his own lower lip as his every expression was _devoured_. 

 

Steve’d hissed like a cobra because it was just that. Damned. _Good_.

 

He’d ridden T’Challa straight-on till morning, feeling both wanted and wanton under that dark, intense, _possessive_ gaze and those hot, worshipful hands. And thanks to Steve’s lack of refractory time and T’Challa’s obsession with watching Steve come, by dawn, Steve had been fucked-out and come-stupid— _five times_ . . . really, T’Challa was just an overachieving _show-off_ —as well as barely ambulatory. T’Challa’d had to carry him to bed, where Steve’d promptly passed out before the considerate king could even get a wet washcloth to clean them. . . .

 

“Your mind is . . . occupied with pleasant memories,” Vision noted delicately, sitting on the adjacent chaise. Recalled to the present, Steve blushed and cleared his throat, and Vision went on. “I had no wish to disturb you, Captain Rogers, but I must speak with you. Urgently, I’m afraid.”

 

“Is . . . is it _Tony_. . . ? Is he . . . okay?” Steve asked, cold all over.

 

“Tony Stark is quite alright, considering . . . recent upheavals.” There was a look of tentative hope in Vision’s heather-grey eyes. “If you wish, I could mention that you asked after his welfare . . . he might welcome such news and news of your _own_ welfare.”

 

Steve frowned. “You mean . . . you _don’t_ already tell him about whatever you see here?”

 

Vision smiled a bit sadly. “I am not J.A.R.V.I.S.,” he reminded Steve gently.

 

Nodding, Steve waved a dismissive hand. “Tell Stark whatever y’like.” He brooded briefly at the horizon and its flickering stars. “So. Whaddaya need to talk to me about?”

 

Vision sighed. “I . . . you are the only person I know who is currently in the same boat, so to speak, that I am in, Captain Rogers.”

 

Steve glanced at Vision, only to find that pale gaze shuttered by equally pale lashes. He was staring at his hands, which dangled between his Docker-clad knees. “And what boat is that, Vision?”

 

Looking up, curious and wry, the other smiled. “Why, that of a man who has lost his heart quite without meaning to.”

 

Momentarily panicked, Steve glanced back into T’Challa’s chambers reflexively. The young king was still deeply asleep.

 

“Maybe say it a little louder, next time, huh?” Steve groused. Vision’s hairless brows lifted.

 

“His majesty . . . does not _know_ you are in love with him?”

 

“I’m _not_ —” but Steve really _was_ a terrible liar. He grumbled: “Does Wanda know _you’re_ in love with _her_?”

 

“I should say so. I have confided my feelings to her on several occasions. She is . . . a singular force in my life,” Vision added with a soft sigh of his own.

 

“Does she love ya back?”

 

“Yes,” Vision said without a shred of doubt.

 

Steve’s heart trip-hammered in his chest, before slowing to its ever-present ache. “That kinda certainty must be nice.”

 

“It _is_ reassuring, yes.”

 

“Then what—?”

 

“ _Advice_ , Captain Rogers,” Vision replied gravely. “Having already asked Agent Barton for permission to propose marriage, I now need advice on _how_ to do so. From someone who is _not_ Wanda’s father-figure. Who _did not_ propose to his wife during a mission, while hiding out in the lavatory of a _Tim Horton’s_.”

 

“ _What_?” Steve shook his head because . . . yeah, that was _such_ a Barton-move. “Why come to _me_ , though? I’ve never proposed to anyone, or vice versa.”

 

Vision was the one to blink, now. “You have not revealed your feelings to his majesty—but I _had_ presumed that _King T’Challa_ —”

 

“King T’Challa, _what_?” Steve asked again, breathless. Vision cleared his throat and stood, brushing large hands down his forest-green sweater-vest and looking as if he’d just realized he’d made a terrible blunder.

 

“I . . . believe I shall take my query to Laura Barton. Or perhaps Dr. Banner. I _am_ sorry to have bothered you, Captain. Good morning.”

 

And Vision turned tail and practically _ran_ — _flew_ —into the night, his golden cape suddenly appearing just before its owner _dis_ appeared.

 

Leaving Steve to return to bed, puzzling over the whole thing.

 

By dawn, blinking sleepily awake in T’Challa’s arms, and surrounded by T’Challa’s scent and warmth—by his . . . _affection_ —Steve was sure he’d dreamt the entire visit.


	10. Night III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Right before and after Bucky is awakened, Steve loses sleep, broods, and realizes he might be in love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes/Warnings: AU. Set post CA: CW by six months. Each ficlet will increase in length by one hundred words. The first ficlet will be one hundred words (a drabble). The final ficlet will be twelve hundred words.

The cryogenic reversal process was painstaking and slow. Steve and Sam were there for every stage of it.

 

T’Challa also poked his head in occasionally during the day, as his duties allowed. He’d ask after Bucky, laying one hand on Steve’s shoulder or at the small of his back. Steve would look over at his concerned lover, open his mouth to answer, then shake his head, glancing back at Bucky once more. On Steve’s other side, his eyes never leaving Bucky’s shivering, moaning, monitored form in its computerized hospital bed, a steely-eyed Sam would answer T’Challa’s questions.

 

The answer being: _He’s doing about as well as can be expected._

 

“Sergeant Barnes will be alright. He’s strong,” T’Challa would reassure them both, but saving a loose hug and kiss on the temple for Steve. Then he’d squeeze Sam’s shoulder and make his quiet, reluctant exit.

 

Such was the cycle, until after midnight, eighteen hours after the reversal began. James Buchanan Barnes’s eyes fluttered open—not for the first time, but now they were cogent and not entirely glazed over with pain and confusion—and he smiled when Steve leaned forward on the bed-railing.

 

“Hey, there, half-pint,” Bucky croaked out. Steve, tears rolling down his face, laughed and brushed lank, damp hair from Bucky’s face.

 

“Hadn’t you heard, Buck? I’m _at_ _least_ _three-quarters_ of a pint, now,” he whispered, kissing Bucky’s forehead. “Doggone, but I’ve missed you, you jackass.”

 

“ _Language_ , Rogers . . . language. You kiss your _Mom_ with that mouth?”

 

“Nope. But I kiss _yours_.”

 

Bucky’s eyes squinched shut in their grey-brown hollows as he guffawed breathlessly. “I see we’ve both matured over the past seventy-five years.”

 

“Yep.” Steve grinned when Bucky’s eyes opened again, their blue rendered more striking for his pallor and the dark circles surrounding them. But despite that, despite the lingering pain and horrible, core-deep cold, Bucky grinned back like old times. For a few moments, anyway. Then he was glancing around, looking worried and almost . . . _betrayed_.

 

“Heyya, Stevie . . . is, uh . . . where’s, uh . . . I mean . . . _Wilson_ —is he . . . _did_ he—”

 

“Make it off the fucking Raft?” Sam finished, stepping forward. Bucky’s eyes widened and took on an extra shine as Sam strolled around the bed to the right side. He took Bucky’s hand, his own eyes burning as they studied the other man. “Yeah, he _did_. Only to find out his erstwhile fella skipped-out on their first date by dint of cryo-sleep.”

 

Bucky winced and smiled limply. “Yeah . . . about that, gorgeous. . . .”

 

“Oh, I can’t wait to hear the excuses for _this_ , Lefty,” Sam said merrily rolling his eyes, which returned unerringly to Bucky. He squeezed the no doubt ice-cold hand in his. “This oughta be good.”

 

“See, there’s the negligible matter of me bein’ a brainwashed assassin with a head fulla triggers some very _bad_ people happen to know, and—”

 

“Lies . . . all lies.”

 

“ _Sweetheart_. . . .”

 

“Wait,” Steve said, gaping at his best friends, looking from one to the other as Bucky tugged feebly on Sam’s hand, till the other man got the hint and sat on the edge of the bed. Then leaned down to press his lips to Bucky’s so softly, even Steve felt the tenderness inherent in the simple act. “What _is_ this?”

 

“Brainwashed, shmainwashed. You _promised me_ plums and _‘_ shine, asshole. The best in Bucharest. You’d better _keep_ that promise,” Sam whispered in a shaking voice. Bucky licked his lips—thereby licking Sam’s, they were still so close—before chuckling, raw and low.

 

“I promised you plums and _ț_ _uică_ , doll-face. Țuică’s _way_ better than mere moonshine.”

 

“ _Seriously_ , what the actual heck?” Steve demanded hands on his hips like someone’s mother. Bucky and Sam looked at him, the former grinning and blushing, the latter looking caught-out and irritated. “How long’s _this_ been goin’ on?”

 

“Ah, stow it, Rogers. We’re all adults, here,” Bucky said, snorting as he turned his gaze to Sam again. Sam shrugged at Steve and squeezed Bucky’s hand.

 

“What _he_ said. You’ve got _no_ right to take any kinda moral high-ground, Mr. _I’ve-Been-Sleeping-with-The-King-of-Wakanda-for-Six-Months_.”

 

“Yeah, that’s—wait, _what_?” Bucky demanded, blinking over at Steve, who was the one blushing, now. “You’re—Stevie, _what_?”

 

“Oh, yeah. Steve and T’Challa’ve been . . . _enjoying each other’s company_ , for a while, now,” Sam said with a shit-eating grin. Steve rolled his eyes and scowled.

 

“Thanks a lot, Wilson.”

 

“’S what’m here for, Rogers.” Sam dimpled and brought Bucky’s hand up to his mouth to kiss it gently. “I’m also here to make sure _your_ dumb ass doesn’t overdo it fresh out of cryo-sleep.”

 

“Aw, _c’mon_ , baby. . . .”

 

“Don’t _c’mon, baby_ , me, _Barnes_.” But Sam smiled and leaned down to kiss Bucky again. This time, it wasn’t nearly so chaste, thanks to Bucky. When it ended, both men were breathing hard, foreheads leaned together. “Even with that serum juicing you up, you’re _still_ gonna be logging some _serious_ recovery-time. And _I’m_ gonna be there, every minute, making sure you don’t go overboard. Or slack off.”

 

“And when I’m ship-shape again, like a good little _soldat_?” Bucky smirked, his bright-blue gaze roaming pointedly over Sam’s body. “How’re you gonna reward me? I mean, I could name a few ways just off the top of my head—”

 

“Ew! Standing _right here_!” Steve exclaimed, making a face. Bucky rolled his eyes lazily.

 

“Ugh, fine. To be continued, Wilson. But just tell me, Stevie-pie: Am I gonna have to kick the king of Wakanda’s ass over your sullied honor, or . . . ‘s he doin’ right by you?”

 

Blushing again, Steve looked down at Bucky’s hand, where it rested in Sam’s. “He’s . . . he’s _amazing_ Buck. Just . . . really special.”

 

“Huh. Does that mean my Stevie’s . . . dare I say, _happy_?”

 

“Somethin’ like that, I guess.” Steve met Bucky’s teasing, amused gaze and held it, till his best friend’s brow furrowed and the levity left his eyes. “ _Somethin’_. . . .”

 

“ _Steve_?” Bucky sounded worried. Even Sam watched Steve closely. “You _stuck on_ this guy?”

 

“I . . . suppose _anything's_ possible, Buck.”

 

It was the first time Steve’d ever prevaricated to Bucky.

 

It didn't feel great.


	11. Night II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Right before and after Bucky is awakened, Steve loses sleep, broods, and realizes he might be in love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes/Warnings: AU. Set post CA: CW by six months. Each ficlet will increase in length by one hundred words. The first ficlet will be one hundred words (a drabble). The final ficlet will be twelve hundred words.

“So.”

 

“So,” Steve agreed, _still_ trying to acid-wash the image of his best friend fucking his _other_ best friend off his brain as Bucky sat on the waiting-area sofa.

 

“ _That_ happened,” he said easily, patting Steve’s knee. “And I feel like maybe I should apologize?”

 

“For what? Having good taste?”

 

Bucky chuckled. “For _somethin’_ , anyway. For not askin’ Wilson to lock the door before he hopped on my dick, maybe.”

 

Steve rolled his eyes. “You’re a real poet, Buck.”

 

“Poetry ain’t my bag, Stevie. You know. I got that _Buchanan Blarney_ my Ma was always goin’ on about, but that’s it.”

 

Steve remembered the stream of affectionate filth he’d heard as his eyes processed _naked Sam Wilson_ riding Bucky’s cock like a man with something to prove, grunting and covered in a sheen of sweat. _Bucky’_ d been reclined in his hospital bed, sweatpants pushed down to mid-thigh, as he gazed up at Sam with worship in his eyes.

 

“. . . that’s right, sweetheart, you _love_ this dick, don’tcha? Goin’ _bonkers_ for it, huh? Yeah, _just_ like that, Sammy . . . _Jesus-Mary-Joseph_ , you’re so tight and _perfect_ . . . I’m gonna come faster than an overdue bill in the mail . . . fuck, baby, _fuck_ . . . yeah, ride me _just like that_ . . . _harder_. God, you got _any_ idea what watchin’ you fuck yourself on my cock _does_ to me? What _you_ do to me? Can’t _wait_ to see you come. . . .” then, without looking away from Sam’s face, Bucky’d groaned, his eyes fluttering shut. “Jesus _Christ_ , Stevie, either join in or _take a powder._ Just . . . stop givin’ us that _face_.”

 

“He’s not givin’ us a face,” Sam’d panted, swiveling his hips and moaning before levering himself up once more. Then sitting _hard_ , impaling himself with a broken whimper. “’S just the face he’s _got_ . . . he’s not makin’ it _do stuff_.”

 

“ _Yeah_ , he _is_ ,” Bucky’d insisted, opening his eyes and glancing at Steve with some asperity. “He’s makin’ it make _me_ go _soft_ , is what.”

 

“Not from where _I’m_ sittin’, Barnes.”

 

Another impalement and whimper, and Bucky had hissed, his grip on Sam’s left thigh gone bruising-tight. Then those eyes met Steve’s again, hard and Winter Solider-esque. “C’ _mon_ , Steve, stop _gawpin’_ and _fuck off_.”

 

And Steve had, Teddy bear, potted African violets, and small carton with a huge slice of apple pie, and all.

 

“Call me _Daddy_ ,” Bucky was grunting as Steve ducked out. Steve heard Sam huff a breathless laugh.

 

“Didn’t even call my _actual_ father _Daddy_. I’m _not_ callin’ _you Daddy_ , Barnes.”

 

“Aw, c’mon, sweetheart . . . doll-face . . . please. . . ?”

 

Then the door had thankfully shut.

 

Now, Steve shoved the bear and flower-pot at Bucky—who took both with a certain bemusement—and shrugged apologetically. “I ate the pie. You guys were at it _forever_ and I got hungry.”

 

“It’s the thought that counts,” Bucky replied, shrugging, too, and wedging the gifts against his armless left-side. “And _why’re_ you so hungry? King Bad-Ass not feedin’ ya right? Keepin’ ya on a strict, liquid protein-diet?”

 

“Oh, my _God_ , did you _actually_ _say that_ , Buck?” Steve demanded, laughing unwillingly. Bucky joined him with another one-armed shrug.

 

“Well.” He snorted a bit. “You always _were_ good at takin’ a knee for the cause, buddy. _I_ had no complaints. Hey—” he swatted Steve’s bicep. “Remember that time Becks almost walked in on you suckin’ me that time after Jimmy Carmona’s birthday party?”

 

“ _Boy_ , do I remember.” Steve’d froze on his bony, devout knees before Bucky, chest heaving. Not because Bucky’s cock was halfway to Steve’s oxygen-deprived lungs—he and Bucky’d been sucking each other _frequently_ since summer before tenth grade: Steve’d had a natural _affinity_ , despite his crummy asthma. _Bucky_ , though keen, had been more _enthusiasm_ than _aptitude_ —but because of the breath-stealing _terror_ of being caught-out taking Rebecca’s big brother’s big _dick_.

 

But Bucky’s hand’d settled on the back of Steve’s neck, stroking soothingly. His other had cupped Steve’s jaw, his thumb stroking the hinge with tender reassurance.

 

 _Whatever happens, we’ll be okay, Stevie,_ those bright-blue eyes’d said. And sure enough, Rebecca had pulled Bucky’s door shut again.

 

Mrs. Barnes had suddenly called her back to the kitchen.

 

A minute after _that_ , both boys had been guffawing like goons, Steve wheezing and wiping come off his chin and Bucky collapsing onto his bed, tucking himself away. . . .

 

“You never _did_ give me _my_ turn, afterwards, turd,” Steve noted fondly. Bucky snorted again.

 

“And I ain’t _gonna_ , wheezy,” he replied. “Not _now_ , anyway. Wilson’d flip his wig.”

 

“Probably,” Steve agreed, glancing over at Bucky, who still looked pale and unwell, but better than he had yesterday. “So, this thing between you and Sam . . . is it about reachin’ out for whoever’s there?”

 

Bucky sighed. “Well, for _me_ , it’s about weeks’ worth of sexual tension. Or _years_ , if ya count the debacle with Project Insight.” Steve nodded solemnly as Bucky’s smile faded. “Anyway. For Sammy, it’s about six, seven months of _waitin’_. Just for that _date_ I promised him. I . . . I didn’t want him— _us_ to wait _longer_ , y’know? Not till I was _cured_ . . . because we don’t know that I’ll _ever_ be.”

 

“So . . . it’s about shootin’ your rocks before everything goes cockeyed, again?”

 

“I _dunno_ what it’s about, Steven,” Bucky admitted, sharp and forbidding. “Just that he’s beautiful. Even more beautiful than the Slattery-twins from up the street. _God_ , Sammy’s _gorgeous_.” He sighed again, his brow furrowed. “And he’s fuckin’ funny as shit, smart as a whip, brave, resourceful, and a balls-to-the-wall, do-or-die, scrapper. Those’ve always been my _type_ , y’know?”

 

Remembering the way Bucky had, once upon a time—before the potential consequences of being _queer_ and the eventuality of a _second_ World War had intervened—used to look at him like he was something pure and precious, rare and _wonderful_ . . . something to be admired and revered, Steve nodded.

 

“I _do_ recall,” he admitted, leaning into Bucky for a few moments before patting _his_ knee. “Sam’s a lucky man. You _both_ are.”

 

Bucky smiled again, less wistful and more wondering. Then he nudged Steve with his shoulder. “Wilson an’ I ain’t the _only_ lucky mooks in Wakanda, Steve. I _know_ you, pal, and you . . . you’re _nuts_ about King Kitty-Cat. And he’s practically _purrin’_ over you, from what Wilson says.”

 

“Then _Wilson’s_ as fulla blarney as _you_ are, boyo.”

 

“ _Wilson’s_ fulla Brooklyn-grown _Irishman._ ” Bucky snickered. Exasperated, Steve rolled his eyes again. “Or _will be again_ , once he comes to. _If_ he comes to. I . . . _may_ have fucked him into a coma.”

 

Smirking, Steve thought of the wrecked, sweaty, _dazed_ heap he’d left T’Challa in before coming to see Bucky. “Super-serums are _swell_ , huh, Buck?”

 

“A real _gas_ , Stevie.”


	12. Night I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Right before and after Bucky is awakened, Steve loses sleep, broods, and realizes he might be in love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes/Warnings: AU. Set post CA: CW by six months. Each ficlet will increase in length by one hundred words. The first ficlet will be one hundred words (a drabble). The final ficlet will be twelve hundred words.

Eventually, after three listless, restless hours, Steve gave up on trying to sleep and got up. Pulled on a pair of loose, drawstring, linen pants, ran a hand over his messy bedhead, and padded out of his quarters on bare, noiseless feet.

 

He passed Sam’s quarters—winced at the unusual, horrendously _loud_ snores coming from within, then smiled. _Good for Buck. And for Sam_ , he thought—then Wanda’s, Scott Lang’s, and finally the Bartons'.

 

From there, it was a still a bit of a hike to where he was going, but Steve’d never minded a decent walk. They’d always helped to clear head and heart. And by the time he reached a familiar set of tall double doors—and having passed several guards he knew well enough to chat with by now (though he didn’t)—he’d achieved a measure of peace. Of _certainty_ about what was maybe the best thing in his unexpected life.

 

When his knock wasn’t answered, Steve took a deep breath and let himself into the night-dark quarters. He was already smiling . . . contented.

 

#

 

Steve started awake—gently, though . . . at least for him. He didn’t come up _swinging_ , anyway—and blinked away the fog to find himself staring into gentle, fond dark eyes.

 

“Was waitin’ up for you,” he yawned, covering his mouth politely, like his Ma taught him, then sitting up to kiss T’Challa hello. And hello. And _hello_. “Mm . . . guess that didn’t turn out as planned.”

 

“My favorite poet had something to say about the best laid plans of mice and men,” T’Challa murmured, smiling as Steve pulled him down on top of him. He settled between Steve’s legs, his strong, callused hand gripping at Steve’s right thigh and squeezing possessively as he ran that hand admiringly up and down.

 

“Well, my plan wouldn’ta gone aft a-gley if you’d come to bed at a _reasonable_ time, T’Challa,” Steve scolded the king playfully, fighting another yawn. “What time is it, anyway?”

 

“Almost quarter to three.”

 

“Ugh.” Steve groaned . . . but it soon turned to a _moan_ as T’Challa began exploring his throat with kisses and nips that were sharp even to Steve. Those moans turned to gasps as T’Challa raked his nails down Steve’s flank and side, respectively. “Holy crow, I _love_ it when you do that. . . .”

 

“I know . . . that’s why I do it,” T’Challa murmured, nuzzling Steve’ collar bone before catching the skin between his teeth and tugging playfully, but with serious intent. The hard-on trapped behind T’Challa’s tasteful black slacks meant _business_.

 

Steve moaned again. “Would you be _terribly_ unhappy if I ripped these _very_ flattering trousers off your body?” he asked, bucking up just enough to lift his lover and himself off the massive bed. T’Challa chuckled, then when they flopped back to the bed, caught Steve’s wrists and pinned them to the bed. Steve flexed, but didn’t exert much energy or effort to get free. They both knew he _could_. Just as they both knew that he _wouldn’t_ , and didn’t _want_ to.

 

“That depends.”

 

“On?”

 

One dark eyebrow lifted and T’Challa almost smirked. “On whether or not you make it worth my while to lose my favorite pair of—trousers. Ah, well,” he finished, watching as those trousers, single-handedly ripped off by Steve, went sailing across the moonlit bedroom.

 

Then his gaze landed on Steve again, fond and indulgent.

 

“I’m thinkin’ I can make it pretty worth your while. Or at least worth a pair of pants . . . nice though they were,” Steve said glibly, continuing to rip the rest of T’Challa’s clothes off without freeing his other hand. When the young king was naked but for a pair of grey socks with black diamonds, Steve did a complex, but painless take-down move—this one taught to him by Peggy, though under far less pleasant circumstances than canoodling—that involved a tangle of legs and an upper wrist-sweep that freed Steve’s other hand. Then, he was pinning T’Challa’s wrists and straddling his lover.

 

“Hello, there,” he whispered, staring down into T’Challa’s shining eyes.

 

“Hello, Steven . . . you were all I could think about during my meeting. I had hoped you might take me up on my open invitation,” he replied softly. “I missed you, but wouldn’t have woken you up just to tell you so.”

 

“Tellin’ me _that_ —or _showin’_ me—is somethin’ you can _always_ wake me up for, your Majesty.” Steve sighed, sprawling over T’Challa’s long, lean body for some slow, dirty grinding. When his lover finally made that low, rumbling sound—which he denied was a purr every time Steve called it one—that meant he was seconds away from trying a take-down of his own Steve, in one quick, fluid motion, sat up, sat back, got to his knees, then sank down on T’Challa’s thick, steadily-leaking cock.

 

The high, breathless noise of surprise the king made was worth the initial discomfort and slight tearing (even with ample preparation, thanks to the serum, Steve was going to be virgin-tight forever), as was the intense pleasure of being taken over by T’Challa’s hot, hard flesh in his own. Steve groaned again, arching his back, fringe clinging to his damp forehead as he waited for his body to accommodate T’Challa, rather than fight him.

 

“You prepared yourself,” T’Challa gritted out, just as breathlessly, his own face damp and flushed enough that it showed up on his complexion. Steve nodded, hanging his head as his body spasmed around T’Challa’s dick.

 

“ _Hours_ ago. Knew I’d have to wait a while ‘fore you got back. Didn’t wanna wait any longer than necessary for _this_. For _you_ . . . _in me_. . . .”

 

This time, T’Challa groaned, bucking his pelvis up before Steve was ready and occasioning a yelp that was equal parts pain and pleasure. While Steve was trying to collect himself, T’Challa tried a take-down of his own and succeeded, without dislodging his cock—if anything, he actually went a little deeper—and once more pinning Steve’s wrists to the bed. Steve returned T’Challa’s smug, heated look with a wanton, hungry one of his own.

 

“Fuck me?” he asked—all but plead. T’Challa’s reply was an unwavering gaze and a deep, rolling thrust. Followed by a slow, steady, relentless pace that nonetheless accelerated as Steve’s breathing sped up. Till Steve’s powerful thighs were clenched tight around T’Challa’s hips, just as his muscles had born down on T’Challa’s dick like a velvet vise. Till Steve’s bucking and arching to meet each thrust lifted them almost completely off the bed. Till Steve’s body clamped down on T’Challa so tight and hard that the king moaned—almost whimpered—as Steve covered them both in come, his shouts ringing off the walls of T’Challa’s bedroom.

 

For a few minutes after, while Steve panted and returned to himself, T’Challa’s thrusts picked up speed and strength, though they lost rhythm. His fingertips bit into Steve’s wrists, causing bruises that reddened, purpled, then faded almost instantly, as he chased his own release.

 

He finally found it when Steve brought his tired, sore muscles—T’Challa was no slouch in bed . . . he was enough to make even a serum-enhanced super-man need a little recovery time—to bear on T’Challa’s cock again, as hard as he safely could, murmuring dirty-talk that would’ve surprised everyone who’d ever known him.

 

“Steven—” T’Challa gasped, eyes fluttering shut as he filled Steve with a seemingly endless supply of hot come. It was enough to push Steve to the brink of another orgasm. T’Challa’s instinctive, final thrusts were enough to push him over.

 

He didn’t even notice when T’Challa collapsed on top of him with a winded grunt.

 

#

 

“I like waiting up for you,” Steve huffed against T’Challa’s shoulder, sometime around dawn.

 

“Then perhaps you might consider sharing my chambers?” When Steve looked up at T’Challa, shocked, the king’s eyes were closed, but his lips were curved in a gentle smile. “I can almost _guarantee_ that if you do, you’ll spend more nights than not waiting up for me.”

 

“I—” Steve gaped, then blinked away his suddenly trebled vision, sniffling as he leaned up to kiss T’Challa square on that amazing mouth. “Sure,” he murmured on T’Challa’s soft lips, then laid back down, his face pressed against T’Challa’s throat. The king’s protective-possessive arm wound around Steve’s shoulders tighter as Steve yawned, sleepy at last. “That sounds nice.”

 

Thus guarded, kept, and watched over, Steve slept. And for the first time in a _long_ time, there were no dreams.

 

END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. That's it: the end of my first _Captain America_ fic, and my first time writing each and every one of the characters portrayed in this fic. How'd I do? Your input, advice, suggestions, and unqualified praise are valued. Also, if you really liked this piece, HMU for more in this 'verse with a prompt or two.

**Author's Note:**

> ::bedroom eyes::  
> Was it as good for you?
> 
> [Follow me on Tumblr](https://beetle-ships-it-all.tumblr.com/)!


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